


Miami Mornings

by NormanBabcock



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NormanBabcock/pseuds/NormanBabcock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Biker wakes up after a long night involving two guests in his lavish apartment. Needless to say, he's deeply upset at their remaining appearance, as he has to go to a very important job call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miami Mornings

Sun beams leaked their way into the apartment, despite protest. God, you hated the sun. You hated daylight, really, and tried your damned best to keep that shit as far away from you as you could, but unfortunately, for some ridiculous reason, it always made it’s way into your room, and you groaned audibly the moment you felt it’s warmth touch your bare chest.

Fucking mornings.

With a grunt, you slowly lift yourself up, your sheets lost entirely onto the sides of your mattress, resting messily on the floor. Well, not that you really gave a shit. You rarely ever cleaned this place, though for occasions last night, there was an exception. 

As those thoughts come to you, you wonder if said residents were still hiding away in the different parts of your apartment. You rub your tired eyes, black locks of greasy hair momentarily blocking your vision before you promptly push them aside.. As soon as your eyes adjust to the awkward lighting of the room (another day of wishing you hadn’t made this place so fucking brightly colored), you notice a pair of leopard patterned underwear resting in the dusty corner, and you sigh.

Yep, still fucking here. Great. Unless that girl from last night just decided to make off with some of your clothes and storm off last night. You then immediately check in the drawer beside your bed, and you sigh in relief. The keys to your motorcycle are still there, thank Christ. If there’s one thing you didn’t want to lose access to, it’s that right now.

You wonder if they still have cab services here in Miami. Or at least, ones that can be called by phone. You needed to get these two—

Shit, was  _he_ still here?

You quickly tug on your nearest outfit. Favorite shirt, kickass jacket,  ripped up jeans, the whole works. Didn’t want to walk around looking like a slob. You always had to look badass, and this outfit made that especially so. 

Walking into the living room, you immediately are greeted by the loud snoring of your so-called friend, which caused you to then grumble under your breath in frustration. You  _hoped_  these two would’ve got their asses out of here by morning, but apparently they’d just decided to make themselves very comfortable. 

Granted, a night full of threesomes, ecstasy, and other various lewd activities probably left them much more exhausted than yourself. You were always one to be on your feet, on your guard, full of the energy to keep going in every thing you did.

While you look around the living room, your eyes trailing over the beer cans and condoms that rested onto the floor, you take a deep breath. You know exactly what you have to look at next, what you have to check. All you wanted was for them to leave you the fuck alone, but they keep on calling, don’t they?

And you know it’s because you want their answers.

Your eyes finally look down at the answering machine, and sure enough, a little light blinks, indicating that you had, indeed, messages to hear. Without any hesitance, your finger presses the button, as it had done countless times, waiting to hear whatever voice would have next in some discreet, cryptic bullshit. You’re so used to this now, but every message makes your stomach churn with spite.

"Hi, it’s ‘Jane’. Nice to see you again. How about another date tonight? Pick me up at North East 158th Street around nine, okay? And put on one of those nice suits you’ve got. You’re taking me somewhere fancy this evening!"

You grit your teeth  _hard_. You could nearly hear the mocking in their tones now, and it made you want to take the closest knife and fucking—

No, no, save that for when you  _get there_.

You lean down and grab your neon blue helmet from beside the stand of the answering machine. You used to keep your helmet hanging off of your bike, but ever since you started getting these calls, you kept it resting by the machine, waiting, watching for that little light to blink green. The machine had become your boss, and your helmet was no longer a symbol of protection, but of imperfect authority. 

You walk back into your bedroom, grabbing your keys with a trained swiftness. So many times you’d done this, it almost felt natural, despite how much you rejected the thought.

Before you leave, you step over to your sleeping ‘friend’, and give him a nice kick to the side, causing him to gasp and jolt up from his peaceful slumber of physical satisfaction.

"Fuck! Th’hell was that fo—"

"Get out. Now." You interrupt. You need them out of here, now. You have things to do, to plan for. You don’t need this fucker dirtying up your thoughts.

"Jesus man, isn’t it a little fuckin’ early to be kicking me out of the place?" He protests, zipping up his pants before sitting up on the couch, a beer bottle rolling onto the floor.

"It’s 4 in the evening, dumbass. Get out of here, take her with you, and call yourselves a cab." 

"Well why the hell are you in such a fuckin’ hurry?" He asks, now standing up, looking down at you. Unfortunately, you’ve always been on the shorter side.

"I’ve got some shit to do, and that’s all you need to know. We had our fun, now get out." You say, voice much more stern than before, as you glare up at the man before you. He glares back, but begins to walk away.

"Fine, whatever. Shit, man, I don’t even know if I can pay for a cab." He grumbles, hands moving to his pockets, finding that the only things that greeted him were emptiness, and little balls of fuzz.

"Ugh, here." You then take your hand and shove it into your pockets, remembering the cash you kept in there. Pulling out three twenty dollar bills, you hand them to him. "Get a cab, take her out for dinner, fuck her again, I don’t  _care_. I just want you both out of here  _now_.”

"Jesus, alright." He mumbles, taking the money from your palm. Footsteps come from the corner of your line of hearing, and apparently they did his as well, as the both of you glance over to find the girl from last night dressed in her previous outfit, tight blue dress clinging wonderfully to a forgettable body. She’d obviously heard the conversation.

"You’re a lot better when you’re high, y’know that?" Your friend mutters, before shaking his head slightly to the side, signaling for the girl to follow him. She shudders a bit in hesitance, you can tell her memory has entirely deleted just who in the hell you and he even were to her, but she follows. Where else can she go? Not in your apartment, that’s for sure.

The girl closes the door behind her as they leave, and you nearly sigh in relief, but you feel no such thing. You rarely feel relief now, except when you’ve swallowed enough drugs to silence the fluttering in your stomach, drown them all in the harsh liquid of a shot of whiskey, that’s the best way to do it.

You look down at the helmet in your hands, staring down at the dark, freshly cleaned lens. You’ve scrubbed your hands countless times on this helmet, it almost felt like the skin of your fingers had become one with the solid plastic of the shield. This helmet became your veil, a part of you that you just couldn’t seem to part from. With that, you begin to walk out of your apartment, helmet gripped tightly, heart pounding, your mind racing;

You need to buy some new supplies for work. You’d lost a couple from your last business trip, and you need to restock.


End file.
